


nothing would ever pull us apart

by reformedcharacter



Category: Emmerdale
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, Fluff, I have no idea what to tag this with, M/M, i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 09:33:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15660516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reformedcharacter/pseuds/reformedcharacter
Summary: a heartbroken aaron earns a living writing personal letters for other people. when he becomes fascinated by a new operating system that can develop into an intuitive and unique entity in it's own right, he meets his match in 'robert'.their friendship forces aaron to consider everything he thought he once knew, and as it develops into more, he loses his grip on everything he once was.





	nothing would ever pull us apart

**Author's Note:**

> this is based off one of my all time favourite movies her (2013) so i hope you enjoy this chapter and let me know if you want to see more!
> 
> (this is my first chaptered fic so please let me know what you think!)

_“The heart is not like a box that gets filled up; it expands in size the more you love. I'm different from you. This doesn't make me love you any less. It actually makes me love you more.”_

  
  
  
  
  


Aaron’s computer chimes with a small _bing_ as he logs in, the clock in the corner just flicking over to eight am. The screen fills with bright white boxes and tabs he didn’t properly shut down the night before; his eyes squinting and blurry as he kicked the uncomfortable wheelie chair under his desk. Christopher is on the phone behind him and Aaron allows his monotone words to drown out, melting into one another, as Aaron takes a large gulp of the coffee he bought outside. Flat white, lukewarm, bitter, as he swallows quietly.

His computer is still beeping loudly as Aaron slams the paper cup on the desk; he squeezed it too tight, the paper crumpled and logo barely legible as the liquid spills out over the sides, trailing down to meet the wooden table, pooling in a circle that Aaron’s not going to bother to try and remove later. The bubble by his emails flashes an alarming red, the numbers _247_ blinking at him, mocking him, as he sighs, shoulders hunching over.

With a second, louder, sigh he clicks it open, shrugging off his jacket and allowing it to fall between his back and the chair. The window fills his screen, hundreds of names he doesn’t know neatly queued and waiting. Aaron clicks on the third one.

 

_From: Gregory Howard, London_

_“She wants to leave me. Don’t let her. Her name is Mallory, tell her about the holiday to New York, and the day we spent in Central Park. And when we went to that pet sanctuary and she fell in love with that fucking ugly ginger cat. Don’t let her leave me.”_

 

Aaron exhales a puff of air out of his nose as his eyes quickly scan the message; he received one like this yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that; in fact, one has probably just made itself home in his inbox as he spends the thirty seconds reading this _Greg’s_ pathetic ramblings.

He clicks off the email and opens up the drawer to his left; a scent of floral perfume floods his nose as he rummages through the packets of paper, pinks and blues and greens, mix into an unsatisfying pile of colour as he pushes them to the side, when his fingers finally grip onto a pack of pale yellow. He shuffles a sheet out of its plastic and lays it flat on the desk, brushing small flecks of dust off with a gentle finger. Aaron then shuts the drawer with a loud bang and opens the one beneath, a mess of pens greets him. Markers and biros and felts and pots of ink in all colours, he bypasses them all and plucks a simple black fountain pen from the selection.

With a sigh, he writes:

 

_“My dearest Mallory._

_I know I hurt you, when I promised I wouldn’t. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But, I love you. I loved you the first time my eyes met yours in that crowded room. I loved you when we went to New York and drank coffee in Central Park, the sun bouncing off your cheeks and making the freckles on your face bloom and speckle across your nose. I loved you when you held that stupid cat in Hackney and refused to let him go. I loved you when you hated me, and I will love you for everyday I continue to breathe. Please don’t let this love be wasted. I’ll be waiting for you, you know where._

  _Forever and always yours,_

_Gregory.”_

 

The black cursive fills the page, letters gentle and swooping, with ease. Aaron’s fingers don’t shake, despite their desire too, nor does the ink smudge and spread across the page, tainting the soft yellow of the paper or the rough skin of Aaron’s fingertips. He places the paper in the basket to his side, ready to be pushed into a matching envelope and shoved through some unsuspecting heartbroken woman’s door, or handed to a grieving brother, or to say thanks to some remarkable teacher. Aaron reopens his emails and sends Mr Howard’s to the trash. He clicks on another, Olivia Davies, and picks up another pen.  

It’s so easy here, to pretend, with Christopher still making drinks behind him and Elizabeth still working on a letter from four days ago, three desks over. It’s so easy here, to be someone he can’t outside these walls, to let poetry to flow through his limbs and release itself in branches and streams on the paper, falling happily into place.

 

It’s easy here, because everywhere else is so fucking difficult.

  
  


\--

 

He’s on the high street when he sees the advert. He’s got another coffee in his hand, and a chicken salad sandwich in his other, when his eyes flick over to the stand. There’s a large tent with people flocking around it, aimlessly waving at the few staff members and calling for no one in particular to serve them. It stands out, Aaron supposes that’s probably the whole point, against the old cobbled stoned city centre of Leeds. The row of shops perhaps not looking too out of place in a low budget eighteenth century drama on the BBC, a wash of brown stones and brown tiles and brown doors.

The stand, however, is a stark white, with large white screens and white display cases. Even the staff, which as Aaron looks longer there appears to more than twenty despite the small venue, are donned in white polo shirts. Without meaning to, he wanders over, the coffee in his hand still hot, thankfully, as he takes a quick drink.

He finds himself stood in front of a sign, also white, with bright orange letters displaying ‘OS1’. His eyebrows crease in confusion. Everyone knows about OS1, just like everyone knows that OS1 was a disaster from quiet beginning to disastrous court case end. He feels like he should have kept up to date with the system, but the rich and arrogant nineteen year old who created it, slicked back blonde hair and all of daddy’s money on keen display, taking up the news every night got irritating for him quickly.

A flurry of people push past him, bags, white, clutched in their hands tightly, some holding them to their chests. Aaron steps closer to small group of people still occupying the space. 

A dark haired man steps in front of him, the polo shirt adorned with his name elegantly sewn in to the fabric: ‘ _Jason’._ Jason, who’s smiling wider than Aaron thought possible, nods his head slightly towards him.

“Hi there, are you looking to buy today?”

“Um.” Aaron murmurs, “I don’t really know what _this_ all is?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound like a question, but it does. He’d wave a hand around but their full, and Jason seems to understand his point regardless.

“Oh, a newbie. I love a newbie. _This,_ is OS1.” Aaron resists the urge to roll his eyes, but only just. 

“Yeah I know that, but what exactly is that?” Despite his best efforts, he can’t resist the urge to sigh loudly, but if _Jason_ is bothered by it, he isn’t deterred. His smile grows impossibly wider. Aaron’s coffee has grown cold.

“OS1 is an Operating System, the world’s first Artificially Intelligent Operating System,” He says as though reading from a script, “Basically, an OS that has a personality. So it can answer your emails, file your taxes and play the music you like all while listening to you complain about Linda from resources.” Aaron supposes everyone must have a ‘Linda from resources’, because there’s no way that this Jason bloke could guess that Aaron’s Linda has to be the biggest pain in the arse Aaron’s ever had the misfortune to meet. 

“So, it’s a computer thing, that _talks_?” Aaron says, and curses himself for sounding so stupid.

“In simple terms, yes.” Jason says, walking backwards to a stand, that Aaron now notices displays a laptop. Aaron follows as Jason continues to explain.

“It was originally designed for workers who ended up working such long amount of time that they forget how to have a real conversation. But, our research has shown this system has been a massive help to the elderly looking to use technology more frequently, as well as those people who are just a little lonely.”

Aaron gulps as he says the last word, thoughts of his empty flat flooding his mind as he shuffles uncomfortably side to side.

“So, can I interest you in purchasing? I can walk you through how to set up at home right here.”

Aaron’s nodding before he realises: “Okay.” He says.

 

 

He heads back to work £300 poorer, clutching the plastic bag tightly in his hand, and a small smile on his lips.

  
  


\--

 

Aaron kicks the door behind him, the dull thud echoing around the empty room. He pulls off his backpack and tosses it to the side as he stamps on the back of his shoe, toeing them off and kicking them aimlessly across the wooden floor. His shoulders are heavy, an invisible weight balancing on his back, as he lets the lethargy of the day sink into his skin. He traipses past the kitchen, where untouched plates and bowls are stacked in the sink, he has no intention to get to them tonight.

He’s not even turned the lights on as he sits at his desk, the sky outside is a bright pink and orange as the 7pm sun shines through his window, flooding the room in an uncomfortable glow. Aaron leans over and presses the on switch of his computer before forcing the disk into the tray before it’s ready.

There’s a pause as it loads, a spinning dial displaying OS1 over and over appearing on the screen as it loads. Aaron breathes deeply through his nose.

It beeps, and then speaks:

 “Aaron Dingle, welcome to the world’s first Artificially Intelligent Operating System. OS1. We’d like to ask you a few basic questions before the Operating System is initiated. This will help create an OS to best fit your needs.” The monotone voice recites at him, logo still spinning in the corner of the screen. 

“Okay.” He mumbles, unsure of where this is going. Insufferable Jason not mentioning anything about a questionnaire. 

“Are you social, or antisocial?” 

Without meaning to, Aaron shrugs. A small up-and-down, barely visible, movement as he replies: “I guess social, but not as social as I would like to be.” 

It’s embarrassing, to talk to the screen like this.

“In your voice, I sense hesitance. Would you agree with that?”

It’s even more embarrassing, for even a screen to realise he’s as much of a fuck up as he is.

“Oh, sorry.” 

“Would you like your OS to have a male, or female, voice?”

This time, there is no hesitation: “Male.”

“How would you describe your relationship with your mother?”

He pauses, halts in the gentle spinning of his chair; “Fine, I guess. You know I don’t often see her, you know what with my job and living so far-”

“Please wait as your Operating System is initiated.”

The logo in the corner of the screen expands to take up its entirety, the bright orange background makes Aaron’s eyes squint, the harsh light against the darkness of his room sending a niggling ache down the back of his neck. He blinks a few times, quickly and with minimal reduction of the ache now drilling at his temple, and as quickly as the logo appears, it vanishes, leaving a small box and keyboard in its absence.

 

The question fills the box a second later: “ _Please name your Operating System._ ”

 

The cursor flashes off and on six times before Aaron stops rereading the question, his eyes squint as he taps his finger against his leg in time with the harmonic beeping of the system. He’d wrongfully presumed that a name would be provided, or, at least, would just be resume to be called OS1 for the sake of simplicity.

He continues to tap on his leg as he bites his lip harshly, his teeth digging into soft skin and trapping it in place. His finger nail snags on a thread in his jean and pulls, Aaron wincing in pain as his nail rips down towards the centre. The question impatiently blinks at him, waiting for a response. He leans over and types quickly, fingers loudly smashing against the keys, and the letters appear on the screen, neat and white.

 

R  O  B  E  R  T

 

Aaron presses enter with little thought, the name being the first to pop into his head, and the screen flickers black before a small spinning circle appears, and then almost instantly, fades away.

His desktop appears, a picture of Aaron and Adam in ridiculous white snowsuits and sunglasses stares back at him as he blinks. Once. Twice.

Aaron throws his head back, sighing loudly as he stares up at the cream ceiling, when suddenly a voice fills the air:

  


“Hello, I’m here.”

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you thought on my tumblr! @frecklysugden


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